It Will Pass
by Hestia01
Summary: Holmes and Watson each ponder their friendship, and what they wish it could be. Bookverse This is in alternating first-person narrative. It starts out as Watson, then Holmes, and so forth


Chapter 1.

It was a cool, quiet evening. I was reclining in the parlor, reading the paper when I heard it. It was a sound grown familiar, and, if I dared to admit it, dear to me. The sound which I'd previously only endured and for which I was regularly compensated, I then discovered I had grown to enjoy and listen for in its own right. The melancholy shrieks of a tuneless violin as its owner scraped and sawed idly in thought, playing his feelings without care. Its dissonant notes moved me to pity, without knowing exactly why. These were the songs of an unquiet mind. I wondered what could be troubling him so. I had half a mind to ask, but he was in the next room, and my leg was paining me again. The old wound was certainly taking its time to heal, and the cold aggravated it. Any number of mysteries could be whirling through the man's head, taking shape in his violin, and any number of those things were well beyond my understanding or concern. I turned the page and snapped the paper back to read, trying to put it out of my mind, but I couldn't.

Despite the twinge in my leg, I got up and ambled past his bedroom door, which hung open, admitting the wild sounds of his instrument throughout the rest of the flat. I gazed in on him, his head thrown back, his eyes worlds away, the long fingers of his left hand cradling and caressing the polished wood of the violin's neck, moving with careless dexterity under the ministrations of the bow in his right. I thought I heard him sigh. Then, he turned his head and our eyes met. He started! His face, a study of guilt which was gone in an instant. He offered me a nod and a half a smile before switching to a piece which he knew to be one of my particular favorites. He played with forced merriment, innocent once more. I was about to take my leave when I screwed up my courage.

"You don't have to," I told him awkwardly, hiding my blush behind a handkerchief. "Go on. I don't mind your thinking-tunes so much."

He gave a soft laugh, still playing a sweet Strauss waltz for me, "Thinking-tunes? Hmmph, I like that, Watson. I do."

I smiled then, feeling warm and content, happy with our strange friendship. We'd only just taken our flat on Baker Street a short while ago, but I already felt fond of the man. _Very fond_, I said honestly to myself. It was a curious feeling, really. I couldn't recall feeling this for any of my fellows before. Still, this felt comfortable, uncomplicated, like a favorite pair of gloves that fit as perfectly as a second skin.

"Holmes, old man, are you...are you quite well tonight?"

"Well enough, yes. Thank you, Doctor."

I detected a note of humor in his voice as he emphasised my title, as though my concern for his welfare were solely medical in nature. We both knew that it wasn't true. Still, perhaps it was easier for him to suppose so, unaccustomed as he was to being on friendly terms with anyone. The man, before he made my acquaintance, was so very alone, and quite peculiar as a result. Still, as odd as he was, and just as aloof, I could tell a lonely soul when I knew one. Poor devil.

"You haven't eaten today, Holmes. Shall I send for something from the kitchen?"

"If you must," he replied thoughtlessly, his strings giving a short whine. Then, he stopped playing altogether. "Yes, thank you."

He joined me for a late supper, a simple tray of Cornish pasties and roast potatoes. Solid bachelor fare with no unnecessary frippery. It helped set a comfortable, casual atmosphere, which I felt necessary after my awkward talk and thoughts of him earlier. I poured myself a glass of whiskey afterward to settle myself. I indicated the bottle to Holmes and he gave an indifferent nod of acceptance. He sipped carefully, deep in thought as always.

"You know, Watson, I remember being...unenthusiastic about taking a flat with another man. I've always been alone, and assumed it would always be so. Still..." he sipped again. "I must say the decision wasn't a bad one."

I never thought I'd hear him admit as much. Strangely, my heart rose at his words. The fact that he simply did not regret sharing a home with me was certainly a compliment coming from him.

"I would say so, too," I agreed heartily. "Although, to be honest, before we were introduced, I was...warned, let's say, of your ways." While I quickly thought how to amend this, I was amazed to see Holmes smile at the idea.

"Warned about me, were you? Naturally." The man chuckled softly to himself, probably wondering _exactly_ what people said about him. "Let me guess, our mutual friend told you I was of a highly peculiar temperament. That I was a possibly mad recluse with a complete lack of social grace."

I had to smile at his self-portrait. I clapped a hand on his shoulder, taking my seat again. "Now, now, nothing that bad. I feel we've gotten on rather well, don't you? And I must say, there's something pleasant about sharing a home with someone. Gives one the feeling of not being all alone in the world. And yes, despite all warnings, I feel it was a good move for both of us."

Holmes shrugged to himself, filling his pipe. He offered the humidor to me as well and I gratefully accepted. He struck a match, lit his and my pipe with a quick flick of his fingers, and we were soon puffing away comfortably. "You know, Watson, I cannot imagine what would possess a man to marry. A man's company is far more rewarding, in my opinion. We needn't tiptoe around one another's feelings, or be wary of verbal entrapment. With a lady, one always feels the pressure to be on one's best behavior. It's exhausting!"

"Quite right," I found myself saying as I gazed at him. I suddenly was gripped with the need for more spirits. My hand trembled as I refilled my glass. _This simply will not do! All he's said is that it wasn't a mistake to take 221B together, and that he preferred a man's company to a lady's. What right-minded bachelor wouldn't? Mustn't get my hopes up. In all events I must not entertain such a notion! It's wrong! Wrong, wrong, all wrong! _"I especially enjoyed our investigation together, most exhilarating! I say, if you ever have the need for my assistance again..."

"Yes, good," Holmes nodded idly. "I may yet." He leaned back, his thoughts floating away with him once again. "It was, I suppose you could say, refreshing...I mean, having you along with me on that...study in scarlet, as you romantically named it in your account." He gave a deprecating laugh, obviously still not fond of my version of events. It's true that among other things, the man was an egomaniac, and anything I added to the story that wasn't about his brilliant investigation and deduction was a waste of ink and paper. "You listened."

"What's that?" I ask, leaning forward slightly.

"What I mean is...I have no trouble 'performing' for an audience, but in your case, I found my audience to be most engaging. Rather than expressing disbelief and astonishment, or at least in addition to the same, you were genuinely curious how I came to the conclusions I did."

"How could I not?"

"Well, you see, Watson, my methods, while precise, strike most people as...not above suspicion. Others tend to regard me as a conjuror or mesmeriser at a music hall performance. They take me at my word, take my advice often enough, but no one has bothered to _ask._ Your contribution in that sense is duly appreciated."

I had already known him long enough and well enough to recognize this for the compliment it was. He was so accustomed to working alone; the fact that he was grateful for my part in it, no matter how small, meant worlds to me. It was very pleasing to know that he valued my assistance, as well as my friendship. From such a man, such consideration was indeed a gift. I would be content, if it were not for the strange longing aroused in my heart. _It will pass_.

Chapter 2.

The evening was sadly without incident, and the inactivity grated on me. I found my mind wandering in odd directions, unable to grasp any one train of thought for long. My fingers closed on the case containing my syringe and vial of cocaine, when I heard Watson's voice in my head, admonishing my use of such stimulants, reminding me that such practices may irreparably damage my health and faculties in time. My urgent need fought against my friend's displeasure...I dropped the case, flinging it across my desk with a frustrated grunt. Just upstairs, Watson was already asleep. Nothing kept _him_ from getting a good night's rest. I couldn't help but feel a bit jealous of him there. What I wouldn't give to relax in the quiet, rather than be aggravated by it, _mocked_ by it! It seemed to be a condition peculiar to me, I knew of no other whose mind required constant action and problems to solve. I tried busying myself with a book when I was instantly distracted by a creak and faint snore coming from my associate's room. He wasn't loud, certainly not enough to upset the night's calm, but I have found that I somehow pinpoint his sounds and movements more readily than other's. They were almost enough to settle my strung nerves. Just knowing he was near calmed me by a small degree.

How had he gotten a hold of me so quickly? And worse, did he realize? No, impossible... And he certainly wouldn't tolerate such foolishness if he was ever to guess. I paced the room with a steady tread, the carpet has already begun to show signs of my favored paths. I quickly grew tired of this. In a wild flash of frustration, I threw myself down on the settee and groaned softly to myself, unable to make heads or tails of my conundrum. I shut my eyes tightly, mentally reciting the Periodic Table to calm myself. I got as far as potassium when I heard another creak from upstairs...

I found myself back on my feet, being led by some unseen force, mounting the stairs to where my friend slept so soundly. I chalked it up to mere curiosity. The door was open a crack and I gazed in. There he was, dead to the world; the sight of him brought an automatic smile to my face. All other matters aside, John Watson was already a comfortable addition to my life, both personal and professional. He was right, having someone to come home to did have its allure. A small sense of domestication didn't hurt. He'd just followed me faithfully through an investigation—an adventure, he called it!- last month and was already eager for more. It was hard for me to believe that anyone would willingly thrust themselves into my company for very long. I've been told by more than one person that I'm...tiring, and that was putting it kindly. I stepped farther into the room, drawing near the bed. I studied his sleeping face and felt compelled to sigh aloud. I crouched down, balancing on the balls of my feet, silently hovering within inches of his face. I stared, as a man in a dream. I felt the strange compulsion to touch him, to take his hand, brush my forehead against his. Here was someone who desired my friendship when few others did, even my own family. Why did he make me feel so strange? Some base, animal instinct still alive in my modern skin told me that he belonged to me and that I must protect him. The notion would not be swayed.

Watson had been quick to notice my lack of interest in the opposite sex, but could not guess the extent of my...peculiarity. I have never been burdened by thoughts such as these before, these strange, tender pangs. Still...somehow with him here, I knew he was the only one for me. The brightening clarity of a cracked case shone on me tonight for an entirely new and completely illogical reason. Yet at the moment, I was devoid of reason, and logic had no hold on me while my passions were so quietly and cruelly inflamed. For the time, I cared not. Silently, I gazed my fill. I licked my lips pensively, while the back of my brain began churning out explanations and excuses for my being there, should my friend wake unexpectedly. He turned over towards me with a soft grunt. I stood sharply, nearly losing my balance in the process; I steadied myself by catching hold of his nightstand. Thankfully I didn't make any noise. I was bent over him for a second more, I thought briefly of kissing him...wondered for a second what it felt like to kiss someone with a mustache. This served to properly jar me out of my bizarre fantasies, I stalked out as silently as I came, frustrated and furious with myself for giving way to emotion. It was something I'd always prided myself in, that I never let emotion get the better of me. I went straight to bed, barely remembering to take my shoes off. I pressed my face into my pillow, muffling my miserable moans. This...sickness, this mania..._It will pass._

Chapter 3

The next morning, I awoke to the sound of Holmes' mournful violin once again. He was up early and evidently still brooding. After I finished my toilet, I made my way downstairs. Breakfast sat on the table, untouched, while my eccentric roommate wailed away on his strings in a dreary daze. In any other man, I would say his music spoke of a broken heart, but I knew Holmes too well to suspect he would fall prey to the snatching claws of love. He was built solidly on logic and reason, he was simply above such matters. I wondered once again what troubled him, and I wished with all my heart that I could comfort him. I had such a strange dream last night, of him watching over me. A pleasant vision, and if that's all I could have of him I would be able to live with that. There was something so beautiful about him this morning, with the sun's early rays splaying out behind him in a perfect halo.

I shook myself, pouring out two cups of coffee. I held one out for Holmes; his fingers brushed mine as he took it, startling us both and making the cup clatter on its saucer. I could almost swear that I saw a touch of pink around my friend's ears. He put his instrument down and joined me at the table.

"Sleep all right, Holmes?"

"Hmm?" He looked up from his toast. "Well enough, I suppose."

More bravely, I pushed forward. "I thought I heard you pacing around the floor again last night. Something on your mind?"

Again, he gave me a transparently guilty look for half a second, then schooled his features into perfect calm. "Oh, you know...nothing you need worry yourself about."

"Look here, old man," I offered congenially, "If there's anything I can do..." I reached my hand toward him foolishly, but unable to withdraw without bringing further attention to it.

Holmes took me by surprise then, when he gave my hand a pat...and a barely perceptible squeeze. "Thank you, my dear Watson," he sighed, "but I'm afraid it's something I cannot subject you to. It will right itself, never fear. No need to trouble yourself," he assured me casually, looking perfectly unaffected.

"Well...the offer doesn't expire."

We ate breakfast in relative silence. There was nothing remarkable in the paper, and we had no clients beating down the door. It had all the makings of being another quiet day. Casting around for something to talk about, I recall the strange dream I had last night.

"I say, Holmes, do you have any experience in...dream interpretation?"

He grunted from behind the paper, now doing the crossword. "I've read some literature on the subject, but it's all poppycock, you know that. Dreams are simply disjointed thoughts, smatterings of memories, topped off with a load of nonsense. All they're for is to keep the brain active while we sleep. They certainly don't _mean _anything. Why? Have funny dreams last night?"

"Well, I..." I faltered, suddenly shy about the subject.

Unfortunately, a bored Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous one, at least for me at this time. He folded the paper and gazed across the table at me with undisguised interest. He looked like a hound on the trail of fresh blood. "Oh, come now, Watson. You obviously want to tell me about it or you wouldn't have brought it up."

"Well, you were in it," I answered with truthful discomfort, wishing I had half of my friend's ability to improvise. It would have been no use, though. The man can detect a falsehood or an omission a mile off.

"_I_ was in it? My god, what a nightmare," he laughed shortly. "I wasn't using you for target practice, was I?"

"No," I admitted, forcing a laugh as well. It wouldn't do if he thought it was in any way significant to me. "Nothing that frightening. You were just...watching...watching over me as I slept." I felt my face reddening as I told him this.

Unsurprisingly, Holmes looked rather bothered by my description. His eyes lingered on me longer than usual, his face twitched curiously, like someone trying to fight nervous laughter at a funeral or other solemn event. He covered his face with two hands, propping his elbows on the table. He took several deep breaths and cleared his throat loudly. "Very—very interesting, Watson. And, um, how did that make you feel?"

I knew I couldn't tell him the truth, but at the same time I couldn't lie. I couldn't put him off the subject without looking suspicious, so there's nothing else to do but tell a half-truth or two. "Quite secure, actually. As anyone would, knowing you were watching over them. Now, let's forget all this foolish dream business. Like you said, it's all nonsense." I silently congratulated myself at dodging uncomfortable remarks and questions. Then, I decided that turnabout was fair play, and squared myself for my own line of questioning.

"Do tell me what's troubling you, Holmes. I know it's none of my business, but I cannot bear to hear your mind and soul wailing on like that."

"My soul? You've got a flair for the dramatic, haven't you, Watson? If my playing is so bad, you needn't listen to it. It's a fine day to go out for a walk if you're bothered by the noise. And I thought you didn't mind my thinking-tunes."

I would not be put aside, as I knew he was trying to do. "See here, I just told you my ridiculous dream about you, that's embarrassing enough. What do you fear of telling me? It couldn't be an a case, we haven't had a ring at the bell all week and still you've been carrying on so."

The look he gave me was almost hurt. Not by my words, which were innocent and well-meaning enough, but simply _pained. _Holmes sighed thoughtfully, finishing the last of the coffee. "I told you not to worry about it. Thank you for the concern, just the same. Trust me, though, you...you don't want to know." He actually looked ashamed, something that my good friend the peacock has never displayed before. I decided to drop it, but it didn't stop me from wondering.

"You're all right, then?"

"Yes, yes," he murmured absently.

But he certainly didn't seem all right. Between the uncharacteristic lack of appetite and typical lack of sleep, combined with whatever anxiety was preying on his mind and heart, it looked as though things were taking their toll on him. He tugged at his collar numerous times, finally abandoning his cravat altogether. As the day wore on, he even shed his jacket and waistcoat, and rather than his dizzying habit of pacing he was quite lethargic. Looking rather grey, too.

"Holmes, old man, are you sure you're feeling well?"

My friend was curled up on the settee in the fetal position, pressing his face against a cool cushion. He groaned softly, "No, my good doctor, I don't think I'm at all well."

"Come now, let's get you in bed. You're half dead as it is." I propped him up, cradling him for a moment against my breast, not even noticing that he didn't object to our embrace. Together, we stumbled down the hall and into his room. I took off his shoes and belt and tucked him in. Then I felt his forehead. The man was burning up! I ran my fingers over his hair, fighting the urge to give him a kiss. His eyes were closed and he pawed over at me with his right hand.

"Good thing I was able to room with a doctor, what?" He gave a weak laugh.

I opened his bedroom window with a loud _creak._. Holmes clutched his head with a dramatic moan. "You'll be all right, you're just overworked, overanxious, and under...well, everything else. You need rest, fresh air, and fluids,. And most of all you need to lay off that bloody needle! I told you that filthy stuff isn't good for you. You're lucky it didn't give you heart failure or worse!" With that, I snatched up his precious syringe case and flung it out the open window.

He gave a short cry, hearing the dull smack of it on the pavement below.

"Now, you can't come crying to me. It's for your own good, you know. You don't want to end up an addict, or a corpse!" I was absolutely heartless in my speech, finally able to fully voice my opinion of my friend's less savory habits. Having had my say, I relented somewhat. "I just want to keep you around, Holmes. I'm not going to have you drop dead on me because of your damn stimulants."

"Touch of morphine, then? For the pain?" He sounded like a child, whining.

"Your morphine would be better reserved for my patients, people who actually _need_ it rather than those who simply want bottled calm."

"Take it, then. I don't care." Whiny and sulky. What my magnificent friend was reduced to by a mere bout of chills and fever. I almost laughed.

"I'll be back to check in on you. Call if you need anything." I drew the curtains closed, poured a glass of water for him from the carafe, and left the room.

Chapter 4.

That night, I had definitely worsened. My very mind was melting in a fevered delirium. Everything was coming in waves, misting in and out. I saw Watson numerous times, unsure if he was real or a hallucination. He always vanished before I could speak. I reached out for him and touched nothing. I felt cool, damp cloths on my forehead; I thought I could hear them sizzle as they touched me. Watson's voice wandered in and out as well. I could hear him, recognize his tones as readily as I could his face, but I didn't understand a word. I lost all track of time and reality as I fell, endlessly I fell into the great void beneath me. I felt a hand close around mine, an arm around my shoulders easing me up...I stared blindly in the dimly-lit room and could understand none of it. Was I dying? Was this Hell? I clenched my hands tightly around the soft fabric of a dressing gown. My senses of sight and sound had betrayed me, but I could still trust my nose. I inhaled deeply and drank in the familiar fragrance of my own dear Watson. My fever-addled brain could process no more but that he was with me.

"Oh...my...my..." I tried to speak, it was difficult to put two words together. I shuddered to think if this should be permanent. "Darling," I gasped. I knew him, I knew his name, but it wouldn't come forth anymore. "Stay...stay," I panted urgently, clutching at him with unexpected strength. "Don't fade away again. You keep fading away, my dear, my own. My very own," I sighed, feeling quite cozy to be in his arms this way.

"Drink this, Holmes, you'll be all right. I won't fade away, I promise." His voice soothed and petted the soul I wasn't sure I had. I heard someone sobbing, my face was wet...curious. He tipped a cool liquid down my throat. It was bitter, a medicinal powder dissolved in water. I swallowed obediently. I felt a cloth mopping my forehead again. It felt wonderful. If I really was dying, I could easily believe that this was Heaven.

"There, there. You're ill, don't strain yourself."

"W-watson, is that really you?" I was almost certain it was, but my brain had been in such a heavy cloud lately. I had to be sure.

"Yes, it's me," he replied calmly.

"Don't leave me yet. There's...something I have to tell you." I laid back down heavily, dragging him down with me. I snuggled in his arms, it was the most perfect moment of my life. "I don't know if you'll understand, but please try. Please try."

"I will," he answered, running his hand through my hair.

I held his other hand, pressing it to my feverish cheek, boldly kissing it as I'd never before dared do. I heard him gasp in alarm, but I was unrelenting.

"Don't be afraid, my dear." I crooned softly, uncertain whether I was speaking aloud or merely thinking. Reality seemed a tenuous line to walk. I kept teetering over the edge. I clung tighter to Watson, I heard sobbing again and his voice trying to reassure me. It slowly dawned on me that I was _crying_. "Doctor...I think...I feel for you as an ordinary man feels for a lady. You're...you're my lady, Watson. My dear Watson. And if I could, I would have you as my wife. Do you understand?"

More sobbing...but something told me that it wasn't me this time. Kisses on my hands, touching his face...his face was wet, too. What was the matter with us? That's when the bottom fell out and I fell into blackness. It swallowed me whole and I knew no more.

Chapter 5.

I lay there in Holmes' bed, holding him, petting him...I was so incredibly happy, like I could float away at any moment. He loved me, he loved me! I couldn't even begin to believe it. I reminded myself that he was very ill, that taking advantage of his weakened condition would be abominable. Still...I laughed softly but joyfully. He called me his lady! Regardless of the wording, it wasn't quite what a man hoped to hear, I understood. The poor man could barely put two sensible words together, I could give him some leniency there. I pressed my cheek to him, lingering although I could feel his heat from his still-present fever. He mumbled, reaching...I slid off the bed but took his hand, pressed it to my lips and bade him good night. I drew the curtains closed and turned down the lamp to a flicker. Then I went downstairs to alert Mrs. Hudson that her tenant was unwell, and not to prepare anything that would bother his digestion. She looked immediately sympathetic and told me she would send up some broth. She added her wish that he get well soon. For all that she endures from us, this lady, in my opinion, is a jewel among her kind.

Holmes slept most of the day, but his eyes looked clearer than they had. I took that as a sign of improvement. I checked his temperature, his heart rate, gave him a good once-over. Yes, I expected him to make a full recovery in no time. I spoon-fed him a bowl of soup, followed by another dose of medicine. He was completely senseless, the poor man. Awake enough to eat from my hand, but utterly exhausted. I wondered for a moment if some of his morphine would indeed help. Still, I resolved against it. It was probably all that swinging between his stimulants and depressants that made him ill in the first place. It was plain to see that his very body was rebelling and demanding rest and nourishment.

That evening, as I checked in on him again, his eyes fluttered open. He smiled weakly, I returned it and kissed his hand. He was instantly awake after that! He stared at me as though I struck him! He whisked his hand away so quickly I couldn't even react.

"What was that for? What's this all about? What...Watson, what are you...? Oh, no. Oh, lord no! What did I say? I said something...highly inappropriate. Dammit, Watson, I had a fever! I was hallucinating, so whatever you think I said to you you can simply forget it!

His cruel denial banished all thoughts portraying me as "Mrs." John Holmes, M.D. I groaned aloud, feeling like he had punched me in the stomach. I closed my eyes and dropped my head into my hands. My reaction surprised Holmes, who was still blundering for answers in the dawn of his recovery.

"Whatever is the matter? Whatever I said, I shouldn't have said it. I should _never_ have said it!" He looked positively furious with himself. "Watson...talk to me."

I found myself feeling flushed and angry, with a mind to defend myself and make him face up to what he had said...and its consequences. My voice shook, but it was loud and clear: "You said...that you felt for me as an ordinary man feels for his lady. You told me you wished I could be your wife. Well! Choice of words notwithstanding, your...confession made me, for a handful of hours, the happiest man in London. In England, in the world! Damn it all, Holmes," I faltered, my voice breaking as tears fell. Silently I cursed his name and all his ancestors before him, and the circumstances which led us to sharing 221B. What had previously felt like the most excellent of arrangements now fell to ash. I sniffled, not even bothering to wipe my eyes.

Holmes simply stared, like he couldn't understand my reaction. He made a gesture to reach toward me, then stopped himself in time. "Why?" is all he could ask.

"Because I bloody well love you! Sherlock blasted Holmes. I've been out of my head since you walked into my life. I can barely remember _life _of any justifiable description as such before we moved in together. I don't know what I'm going to do now," I sighed honestly, feeling as though everything had been pulled out from under me at once. I sank once again into despair.

"My dear Watson...I...I didn't mean-"

"You didn't mean what?!" I snapped. "And don't call me that, please, it's too cruel." Realizing my feelings for the man had been difficult enough. Until recently, such a thing was absolutely unthinkable. Now...to have had it derided by the very man I loved, the one who made me believe he loved me back. It was a far greater heartbreak than I ever felt. If I were to 'play my feelings' on Holmes' violin, I was certain mine would be miserable wails and screams to match his own as of late.

Holmes sat up straighter, reached out again and took my hand. I cringed, cursing my fluttering heart for still loving this man, still longing for him, cherishing his very touch. Still, I gripped back and felt his thumb draw against my knuckles. "I didn't mean...what I said...just now. I...I'm, uh...I'm sorry." The way he muttered it suggested that he wasn't accustomed to apologizing for anything.

I was still angry, and not ready to be softened by his words. I got up and left the room, throwing myself down in a chair facing away from his room. I heard him creep out. I caught a glimpse of him over my shoulder from the corner of my eye. He hovered behind me, his head drooped contritely.

"I was in a bad way yesterday, Watson. I don't know what else to which I can attribute my behavior. However, I suppose I must make a clean breast of it." He sauntered around to the front of the room to face me. He grasped the sideboard for support. He still looked quite peaked. I graced him with a straight upward gaze, waiting to hear him out. Holmes braced himself, standing rigidly as someone facing a tribunal to confess his crimes and receive judgment.

"John Watson...my _dearest_ Watson...in my wild, feverish hysterics, I spoke truer than I ever intended. I was ready to carry that pronouncement to the grave unsaid. So certain was I that my affections would be met with scorn and disgust, and ultimately the end our friendship, I swore it that none would ever hear of it. Your...reciprocation was completely unexpected," he gave a soft, gleeful laugh. He couldn't stop grinning, completely shattering his apologetic expression. Holmes laughed again, bringing a hand to his face. "I am sorry, Watson. You're the best friend I've ever had, and I-" he stopped, choking slightly, a sudden look of fear flashes over his features. He looked solemn once again as he continued. "I love you, Watson. Truly, I do."

At those words, I dropped my stiff posture, I gazed up at him with my very heart in my eyes. I stood, stepped toward him and haltingly reached for him. He took my hand and pressed it to his cheek with a soft sigh of pleasure. He kissed my fingers and drew me close. I kissed him uncertainly, not sure how exactly we were to do this. I was saved by the sound of badly suppressed laughter. I drew back and saw him touching his mouth with a curious expression on his face.

"I'm sorry," he tittered, drawing a finger across my mustache; "It tickled my nose." He raised a hand, banishing any possibility of criticism. "I like it." Holmes drew near once again and returned my kiss. We had already gotten the hang of it. When he broke away, I sigh with a light whining note, pressing myself into his arms, clinging tightly and pressing my face into his shoulder. We held each other for I don't know how long, both of us were just purring and cooing pleasurably to each other, those sweet love-sounds that don't even need words. I knew then that _I _was what Holmes had been playing as of late, with his wild, mournful tunes. Joy and sorrow, love and despair. What a cacophony they made when set to music.

Then, at our happiest moment, just when everything seemed perfect and wonderful, the bitter truth let itself in like an unwelcome guest. We parted, simply gazing at each other.

"We can't, can we?" I asked sadly, stroking his face again as I felt tears welling up. "Not really."

Holmes shook his head, looking crestfallen as well. He pressed my hand to his cheek, then kissed my palm tenderly. "I'm already a lost cause, you know. Everyone has me written off as an oddity, they won't suspect anything odd that I may do. Just a perk of being an established eccentric, I guess. You...you can look normal. You must, for your own sake. You know what they'd do to you...to us."

I shook my head sadly, "My darling." I sat back down, he sat next to me and placed a hand on my knee. "I understand."

"Find a nice girl, Watson. Someone's bound to fall for you. Just...to keep up appearances. A lady isn't such a bad companion, you know. Settle down, get married, and never speak of this again," Holmes whispered urgently to me, drawing his arm around me and pulling me close into a cuddle. He played with my hair, kissing my temple, giving me the impression that he was memorizing every inch of me. Realizing this to be our first and last chance at this, I turned to face him, pulling him into my lap. I ruffled his hair, covering his mouth, cheeks, and neck with my kisses. I heard him groan with desire, and anger. Anger at the unfairness of this world.

"Look here, Watson...oh, god I like that! Mmm...listen. We still have each other, we haven't lost that. We're exactly as we were, don't forget or discount that. I will always be your friend. We just simply _can't _be anything more, and no one is sorrier than I." We nuzzled our foreheads together, making the most of our limited time. This will be all we will have to enjoy each other.

"I understand. I do." I didn't know what else I could say. There was nothing sensible to say to this cold truth. I took his hands in mine, looked him square in the eye, and nodded calmly. "It will pass."

Holmes gave me a knowing look, stroking my cheek one last time. "It will pass."


End file.
